He's Hurting Me
by p y n q u e
Summary: She was always a sucker for a bad boy. / / or, Victoria is abused. An experiment in style. Not femslash. A bit more hurt than comfort.


**a/n: **Same format as _Hold Me_. A bit different though.

It goes Etcetera's perspective, Victoria's perspective, Etcetera's. Sorry for using Victoria again… she just fit the type.

**Human elements**. It might be easiest to imagine them as humans, because there are bruises involved, but whatever floats yer little boat. I don't really know how old they're supposed to be - at least seventeen, I guess, because Victoria lives with her boyfriend.

* * *

><p><em>caution: the floor's wet in here, been crying<br>i don't know why he seems convinced i'm lying  
>i don't know what he's capable of doing,<br>but he's hurting me_

/

_"Hey, Vic, do you have an extra tank top?"_

She asks it after volleyball, after she's sprayed a ton of perfume because she couldn't get into a shower. She's still got her jersey on, but she lost her shirt somehow and she's _not _going out in a stinky blue thing with a giant zero on it. (For some reason, Victoria always has extra clothing.)

_"Uh, yeah. Pink or blue?"_

Victoria lays the tank tops on the bench, and Etcetera gladly takes the pink one. She quickly tugs it over hear head, then throws on her letterman jacket. She then plops down on the bench, feeling the soft fabric of the blue tank top on her fingers.

_"…Vic, why are you wearing sweatpants? You hate sweatpants."_

It's an innocent question, but it makes Victoria freeze. She smiles, but it's a (nervous; awkward; fake) one. She tugs the aforementioned sweatpants up and ties the drawstring, pulling it tightightight against her flat stomach.

_"No reason."_

She says simply, turning around and pulling her jersey over her head. She throws it off and puts her t-shirt on with lightning speed—but Etcetera swears she saw a mark. A tiny, purple mark on Victoria's shoulder blade.

/

_"Fucking bitch!"_

He shouts it, and Victoria collapses into herself. She wants to press herself into the wall, disappear. She covers her face with her arms, like that'll do anything more than give him something to yank at. She's praying (to god; to the Everlasting Cat; to Buddah; to Allah; to some other fucking power that needs to help her) that he'll stop, wear himself out and leave her alone.

_"I'm sorry!"_

Her voice cracks and makes her sound like a twelve-year-old tom going through puberty. She doesn't know what else to say—and then he grabs her arm, pulls her up off the floor. He promptly slaps her and it stings like a _bitch_. Her face is absolutely throbbing, her lip is busted, and she's running out of cover-up.

_"You better fucking be!"_

Her grabs her collar and pulls it to the side. The force makes her fall in a heap, and she squeaks as her bruised legs and forearms make contact with the wood floor, and a piece of glass cuts her left knee. He looks down at her and scoffs like she's not worth his (time; energy; love; all of the above). She doesn't dare look up, trains her tear-filled eyes on a drop of blood on the floor. When she hears the front door slam and the engine of a car star, she lets her tears fall.

/

_"What's that?"_

It's a little spot on her jaw. Hardly the size of a dime, a little purple mark that only she would notice. She leans on the table, absently chewing her green apple gum that has long since lost flavor when she sees it. Victoria instantly tenses, grips her pencil a bit more tightly. She's working on her (geometry; world history; Spanish; _what is this class I don't even_) homework, and Etcetera probably should be too, but gossip is more fun.

_"Fell on a doorknob. Hurt like a bitch."_

She nods, examines the bruise a bit more carefully. She feels like if Victoria knocked her jaw on a doorknob, the bruise would have looked different. She wishes she was one of those forensic files type people, so she could tell (time of death; gender; type of force), but she can't, so she just narrows her eyes. But after a moment, she shrugs, stands up straight and puts her hands on her hips.

_"Be careful, 'kay?"_

She smiles as she says it, but it's not returned. Victoria just looks at her, then nods, and places her chin in the palm of her hand. She looks at nothing for a moment, before leaning back and chuckling, as if to say (you're an idiot; I'm an idiot; I'm a liar).

_"Yeah, I'll be careful. See you at twelve?"_

And the next day, she's got a black and blue eye.

/

_"Victoria!"_

It's one of his good days. He runs up to her, grinning. She tries to smile back, but at that moment, all of the (bruises; cuts; scars) pulsate once, twice, thrice, reminding her that that smile is like thin ice on the ocean (and if she steps too heavily, she'll fall through the cracks and freeze, drown in his means word and the blood and bruises). He's got a crumpled up piece of paper in his hands, and he waves it around like a flag.

_"Yeah? What's that?"_

He uncrumples the paper and holds it out triumphantly. Victoria scans it for a moment, recognizes it as his math quiz. She looks at the grade in the right corner, written in purple—_B+_. She smiles sadly, thinking _that's the best he can do? _But even so she's proud of him, and grins.

_"See? I did pretty good on this one, right?"_

He shoves the quiz into his backpack. They're quiet for a moment, and she avoids his eyes. She feels her injuries throb again, hides the splint on her finger under her sweater. Suddenly she wants to cry, wants him to say he's sorry so they can be like _this _all the time.

_"You did—"_

Before she finishes her sentence, he hugs her, and she swears to god he's gonna, like, try to break her back or something. But he doesn't, he's just hugging her. And she thinks he's crying because she can hear muffled sniffs. She's still scared, but somehow finds the will to gingerly wrap her arms around him. He _is _her boyfriend, after all.

_"Sorry."_

She's really not sure if she hears him say it, because he pulls away faster than she can say anything. Before she knows it, he's running off, yelling to Pouncival about his new awesome grade. For some reason, she feels very, very cold.

/

_"Dude, what the hell? Every day you've got a new injury."_

She doesn't mean to sound so angry when she says it. They're in the locker room again, and she sees the bruises around Victoria's wrist. Victoria immediately puts her cardigan back on—she forgot those were there. In fact, she didn't really think anyone would notice them.

_"These? I…"_

Etcetera watches Victoria bite her lip, search the floor for an answer. She grabs Victoria's arm and pushes the blue sleeve up right under her shoulder—there are bruises and cuts littered on the pale skin. She can tell that whatever is causing the bruises has been going on for a long time now, seeing as some bruises are deep blue, but others are barely noticeable.

_"Are you sick? Is someone hitting you? Did you—"_

Victoria grabs Etcetera's wrist and grips it tightly. The younger cat sinks into herself, surprised by the sudden showing of anger (or: hate; fear; confusion) She assumes she's gone too far—but obviously, something is wrong, and Etcetera's trying to help. Why would Victoria be pushing her away like this?

_"Fuck off."_

She grabs her bags and storms out of the room. She leaves Etcetera stunned and saddened. She just sits there for a moment, rubs her temples – all she can think of are the spots traveling along Victoria's fragile body, staining the purity of her fur, hurting her.

/

_"I'm leaving."_

She tries to sound firm, but she's shaking. She's on the floor again, sitting in a pool of spilled milk. (But there's no use crying, really.) She cradles her cheek in her hand, feels a suddenly lose tooth with her tongue. She can't take this anymore—she's going to (break; explode; lose her mind).

_"What?"_

He just looks at her, and she actually looks at him, stares at the green eyes that are so familiar, but so strange. He stands there for a minute, and they're silent—but then he steps forward, making her scoot back just a little. He kneels down in front of her and gingerly touches her cheek. It's such an unfamiliar feeling that she doesn't know how to react.

_"I'm leavi—"_

He kisses her. She doesn't know if she should pull away or just give up—but the kiss is sweet, and gentle, and so different from the usual (nails; teeth; tongue) that she decides to maybe, sort of kiss back. He pulls back before she's ready (she was never very strong; always a sucker for a bad boy; always left wanting more), and she almost kisses him again.

_"Go."_

He sits back, and she wonders if he realizes he's sitting in the milk. She doesn't know if she should just leave, or stay there. But she doesn't want to be sucked back in by those sad eyes and peaceful smile, so she stands. He doesn't look at her. She almost gets to the door—

_"Wait."_

/

_"Shit, Victoria."_

It's the first word that comes out of her mouth. Victoria stands in front of her, clothes torn, mouth bloody, drenched. She smiles, and a thin stream of red drips down from her gums and on to her pearly white teeth. She's a battered beauty—her blue eyes shine under the sickly glow from the porch light, and parts of her fur are stained with dirt, clinging to her skin, using rain as adhesive.

_"Hi. Can I stay here tonight?"_

She asks simply, cocking her head to the side. Etcetera covers her mouth, horrified. She never imagined that her best friend would come to her house at four AM on a Saturday night, (broken; in need; asking for a place to stay).

_"Of course! Oh my god, Victoria—what happened?"_

She steps out of the doorway as words rush out her mouth like water in rapids. (_Who did this? Is anything broken? Ohmygodohmygod_) Victoria wipes her bare feet on the welcome mat instinctively, ignoring the sting she feels on the ball of her foot, which holds an open wound.

_"He—he—"_

Etcetera watches as Victoria's eyes fill up with tears and stream down her face. Over her bruises and into a little cut on her jaw—she wonders if it makes the wound sting. And then she breaks down, holds her head in her hands and sobs. She sounds strangled and desperate, and Etcetera has no idea what to do—so she cries, too.

_"It's okay. It's gonna be okay now."_

She rubs Victoria's back, and she can feel her small frame shaking, heaving with every sob. She doesn't know what to say, so she just wraps Victoria into a hug—an awkward, hesitant hug. She tries to bring Victoria into the house, but the white queen won't budge, so they just sit there until Victoria's sobs turn into quiet sniffs.

_"No more. I'm not going back."_

(But on Monday, she comes to school with a fresh new bruise on her shin, one that's just barely covered by her leggings. Déjà vu, right?)

* * *

><p><strong>an: **And that's the end. I hate that the first segment and the last end the same way—with an offhanded note about a new injury, but the first segment would've ended awkwardly otherwise and the end would have had less impact.

So, hopefully you liked it. There aren't really many toms that I could imagine having the balls to abuse Victoria (to me, she's headstrong and kind of a bitch) so I didn't have anyone in mind. But if you want to give the tom a name, totally do.

I plan on writing a lot of one-shots/two-shots/etc. like this, so hopefully you like this style, 'cos otherwise you're screwed. (: It gives me an easier time starting it…


End file.
